Booker sat in the middle, stoic and cool. His long black locks, so similar to Micah’s own, fell over his shoulders to hang in a plait against his back. He seemed the picture of ease as he leaned back, his posture relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
The screen flashed, displaying Vice-President Zimmer standing tall upon a hastily constructed podium of wood and varnish. His wizened face flickered as the television’s signal came and went, but Micah could see it clearly enough.
“…the winner of this match, Delta Stone! Ladies and gentlemen, this is her third match and third win! She’s taken us all by surprise! No one could have expected how this would —” Zimmer’s voice was cut out as the television faded and went black.
“Dammit!” Booker shot up from where he sat, diving forward to pound hard on the side of the television. He prodded its antennas, fishing around behind it to ensure it had sufficient battery. Another fist to its side and the screen reignited, showing the form of a slim red-headed woman being escorted out of the arena and out of sight.
Booker turned to settle back onto the hard floor as the next match was announced, but not before allowing his eyes to lock Micah in their stare. With a heavy sigh, he nodded his head, a gesture indicating that Micah should follow as he stepped from the ring of men and turned down one of the few hallways that would allow them privacy.
Micah complied. In the dark of their makeshift home, Booker looked weary, annoyed, dismissive of the runt of a little brother that so often disobeyed and declined to follow orders.
“The hell had you out so late?” he growled, his voice a low scratch as he eyed Micah with an air of suspicion.
“Sister Anna’s was busy tonight. And Clara was…talkative.”
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